


The Readthrough

by hopelesslybenaddicted



Category: Dear John fandom - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dear John Fandom, Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Dear John, and referencing john's reaction in the apology part 1, but better safe than sorry, dubcon, dubcon is really only mentioned as part of sherlock's history, it's mentioned in chapter 3, so avoid that if you're triggered by dubcon, the dubcon isn't actually happening in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelesslybenaddicted/pseuds/hopelesslybenaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after Sherlock comes home to John, they decide to take a look back at the letters that started it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dear John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647979) by [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe). 



> This fic is meant to take place a few months after the events of the Dear John series. I absolutely loved wendymarlowe's work, and kept imagining the boys getting sentimental and looking back through their old emails and chat logs, and this is what happened. I want to thank the members of my Dear John Hell network on tumblr for encouraging me to write and post this, especially MonikaKrasnorada, elizabeth-twist (aka May_Shepard), queenmab3, roseinmyhand, hotdiggitydollie, and heimishtheidealhusband. They have written some awesome stuff as well, so check them out! Thanks guys!

 

John is drifting, in that place of not asleep but not quite awake. He is vaguely aware of the light coming through the gauzy curtains of the window of the bedroom he shares with Sherlock.  _Sherlock_ \- his first conscious thought, just like every morning since they day after they met at St Bart’s. At first, all those years ago, he had tried not to think about what that meant. Sherlock had been untouchable, unreachable, unknowable. Like the sun, his brilliance had been almost dangerous, best viewed from afar. But now… John smiles inwardly. Now, Sherlock isn’t just his first conscious thought every morning. Now, as he has been for the past several months, Sherlock is almost always the first thing John sees in the morning.  _Incredible_.

John senses Sherlock’s presence in the bed next to him. Sherlock is trying to be quiet, to let John sleep, but John can tell he is sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, and reading something on his laptop.  _Working on his case_ , John thinks.  _His brain never stops_.

John stirs, rubs his eyes, stretches. He squints up groggily at Sherlock, who is smiling at him.

“What?” John asks.

“Morning,” Sherlock answers, and John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s velvet voice. With a great effort, John manages to keep still as an electric thrill runs down his spine.

John nods toward the laptop, “What’ve you got there?”

“Just some old emails.”

“Yeah? Who from?” John asks, stifling a yawn as he rolls out of bed and shuffles to the toilet to relieve himself.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. When John is finished, he washes his hands, splashes some water on his face, pats his hands and face dry with a green hand towel, and turns back towards Sherlock expectantly.

“You,” Sherlock finally answers.

John stops in the bedroom doorway, his brow furrowed, absently rubbing his shoulder. “Me? Why’re you reading old emails from me?”

Sherlock looks up at him over the top of the computer screen. “I’ll leave you to your deductions,” he says with a hint of a smirk.

“Sherlock,” John says, mild exasperation evident in his voice, his head cocked to one side.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“What emails?” John asks.

Sherlock lets a few seconds pass, holding eye contact with John, before answering, “The ones you wrote to William. And the ones he wrote back.”

John feels a hot anger rise up in his chest. His hand involuntarily forms a fist at his side, his jaw clenches, his back and shoulders suddenly tense. “Why?” he asks, trying and utterly failing to keep the anger out of his voice.

“I like them,” Sherlock says softly, his voice apologetic, looking back down at the glowing screen. “If it bothers you, I’ll stop.”

John sighs, relaxes his posture and his fist. “Sherlock. It’s just – I mean, I know it’s alright now, I know you’re alive and you meant everything you said as William. But… Christ, I still feel like such an idiot. And all that stuff I said, about my feelings for you, about not being over you… It’s embarrassing.”

“Why embarrassing? You weren’t alone, your feelings were reciprocated, more than you could know,” Sherlock explains matter-of-factly. “And it’s not your fault you didn’t figure out it was me. I was dead. You saw me on the pavement, you went to my funeral, you stood at my grave. How could you have -”

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off. “Can we please not go through all that again?”

“Yes. Of course. Sorry. Please believe, though, that I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

“I know. We’ve been over it. It’s over,” John says, still standing in the doorway. “You’re back and we’re back together, even more together than we were before, and it’s more than I could have hoped for. But those were the worst days of my life, Sherlock. William was the only good thing that happened to me the whole time you were gone, and he wasn’t even real. It’s just hard to relive everything.”

“I understand. I won’t mention it again if you don’t want me to. But I just want to say, William  _was_ real. Maybe he wasn’t who you imagined he would be, and quite frankly, given the nature of online dating, that probably would have been the case even had he not turned out to be your flatmate returned from the dead, but everything he said, everything  _I_  said, was true.”

John shakes his head, half-smiling in spite of himself. He believes Sherlock, of course he does. William  _was_ real. Even better, William is Sherlock, and Sherlock is  _here_. It’s just his damned pride that makes those memories sting.  _Time to let it go_.

John pads over to the bed, crawls under the covers, and sits next to Sherlock, leaning against the headboard with him, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock starts to close the laptop, but John covers Sherlock’s hand with his own and stops him, keeping the laptop open.

“Which letter were you reading?” John asks.

Sherlock clears his throat and swallows, but doesn’t answer. John looks at the screen and sees the date at the top: Thursday, 4th December. He skims over the email’s contents and feels his face getting warm. He sits upright and looks at Sherlock, who is trying his best to look innocent. “Really? The one where I tell William how I’m not over my flatmate even though he never showed the slightest interest in me? Perfect,” John says, the annoyance back in his voice.

“John,” Sherlock turns his name into a plea. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I bet,” John huffs.

“I’m serious,” Sherlock insists, not meeting John’s eye. “The first time I read it, I couldn’t believe what you were saying. I thought for a while that perhaps Mycroft had actually invented the entire ‘John has an online dating profile’ story and was pulling some sort of elaborate prank, although I couldn’t imagine why he would waste his time on that sort of endeavor, especially when he knew how it would distract me in the middle of such an important job. Eventually I was forced to accept that this was really how you felt. There was no other explanation. Every time I thought about it, I got dizzy. I had trouble breathing. I couldn’t believe I had never realized, never noticed. And I was terrified that even if I did somehow dismantle the remains of Moriarty’s network and make it back home, you would never forgive me for lying to you, first when I died and then as William. I didn’t know what to say. I considered ceasing the correspondence altogether, for fear that continuing the ruse would only do more damage to any chance at a future reconciliation.”

Sherlock stops and takes a deep breath. His words had come tumbling out like a sort of confession, and now he is waiting for a reply, still not making eye contact.

“Yeah,” says John, the hot flash of anger and embarrassment already fading away as he thinks back to how he’d felt telling William about Sherlock. “I remember it was a few days before you replied. I was pretty sure I had scared you off. I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed about that. I had just about settled on disappointed when I got your response.”

“That was the hardest letter for me to write,” Sherlock explains, the sadness and regret making his words heavy and slow. “I wanted desperately to comfort you, to heal a hurt I had caused, but I couldn’t let on that I had been the one who had caused it. And the last sentence… I felt so guilty for writing it. I told myself that I wanted to give you an easy way out, in case you were finding it too hard, but I admit that I had hoped I could convince you to continue writing to me by telling you, completely honestly, that receiving an email from you had become the brightest spot in my day.”

“Well, it worked.” John rolls his eyes, smiling, shaking his head slightly and reaching out to cover Sherlock’s hand, between them on the bed, with his own. “You’ve always known how to make me want to come back. I remember, I actually grinned at that last line. Much as I was afraid to admit it, getting messages from William had become something I looked forward to as well. I was so relieved when I saw that email in my inbox. I had to force myself to wait a day before replying. Didn’t want to seem too eager, you know. Had to try to make you sweat it a bit.” He gives Sherlock a little wink.

“Surely you know by now that any effort on your part to keep me interested was unnecessary. I was ‘sweating it’ from the moment I saw that you had listed yourself as bisexual on your dating profile until the moment you told me that all you wanted was for me not to be dead, that the rest was just gravy,” Sherlock says, a small shyness in his voice.

John chuckles, “I can’t believe I actually said that.” He shifts himself on the bed so that he is facing Sherlock, who is now smiling softly, his eyes shining, looking at John. “But I meant it, you know.” He lowers his voice to just barely more than a whisper. “I just wanted you to be alive. All of this – ” he reaches out and buries his hand in the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck, leans close and kisses him softly on the lips; savoring the warmth of his mouth, the tenderness, the soft exhale of breath from Sherlock’s nose on his cheek; then pulls away slowly, looking into Sherlock’s now distinctly watery eyes “ – is the best gravy I’ve ever had.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock blinks several times in quick succession, looking up at the ceiling, and asks (with an obvious effort to keep his voice steady) whether John would like some tea. John accepts, more to give Sherlock privacy to deal with the emotions threatening to come leaking out of his eyes than out of actual desire for something to drink. When Sherlock returns a few minutes later with two steaming mugs, his eyes are dry. John has Sherlock’s laptop in front of him and is smirking at the screen. Sherlock sits on the bed, cross-legged, next to John, facing him.

“Right, my turn,” John says, a hint of the soldier in his voice. “You saved the chat logs? Even though you kept talking about how important it was to be secretive in case anyone was monitoring you? Nice,” he adds, his soft chuckle making his eyes crinkle. “Guess at least I know you liked them. Although this first one wasn’t anything… terribly exciting.”

“I didn’t save it for its excitement value. There was something about this chat that made me uncomfortable. I wanted to be able to go back and assess why.”

“Ha, let me guess: the fact that I winked at you?” John suggests, demonstrating with an exaggerated wink, a grin spreading across his face.

“Well. I suppose I should say there were two things about this chat that made me uncomfortable,” Sherlock responds drily.

“Berk. What was the other, then?”

Sherlock’s voice is low, serious, almost sad. “Hamish. You told William your middle name. You wouldn’t tell me, I had to go and look it up on your birth certificate. But you told William.”

A quick exhale of breath from John’s nose, he shakes his head, looking down at the bed, surprised that Sherlock would be bothered by something so trivial. “Honestly, at this point I never really thought I’d be meeting William in person. And hell, I’d already spilled my guts about being in love with Sherlock – with you – I figured my middle name couldn’t do much more damage.”

Sherlock pauses, cocks his head to the side, eyes narrow, brow crinkled.

“What?” John asks.

“You said ‘being in love with,’ just now. But you didn’t tell William you were in love with me. You said I was brilliant and gorgeous and exhausting,” he ticks off John’s descriptors on his fingers, “and that you fell head over heels, and that you weren’t over me. You never said the word love.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John says, rolling his eyes, a smile he can’t completely restrain causing the corners of his mouth to twitch. He is surprised to find that the embarrassment he felt earlier hasn’t come burning back into his cheeks. “Did you memorize everything I said? Also, you do realize how insane this conversation is, right? I mean, you’re talking about yourself like you’re two different people.”

“I didn’t memorize everything. Just the parts I needed to keep me going,” Sherlock answers earnestly.

“Okay. Fair enough. Want to know the part that kept me going?”

“Of course.”

“How fucking awkward you were about a stupid wink!” John says, barely containing a cackle. “And then you got all flustered over my use of the phrase ‘get lucky,’ god, I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, it was cute, but it was pretty bloody obvious you had no idea what you were doing.”

Sherlock sighs and looks away from John. “Well, I never claimed to have any idea what I was doing. Like I told you in the next email, flirting has never been something I’ve excelled at,” he admits, a slight defensive edge to his voice.

“Excelled? There’s no question of excelling. You were terrible. So painfully awkward! That explanation, about how maybe if you’d had time you could’ve come up with an adequate response, my god, I was –“

Sherlock cuts him off, definitely annoyed now, forcing out his words through clenched teeth. “Yes, alright. I believe I’ve got the picture, John. If you’re quite finished telling me how ridiculous you found my efforts at establishing a flirtatious rapport with you…”

“I’m sorry,” John says, covering his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter, his eyes still shining merrily, “but it was pretty funny. Thinking back now, I’ve no idea how I didn’t realize it was you. Who else could have been so clumsy about anything that even bordered on romance? But it was endearing.”

Sherlock scoffs, crosses his arms, angles his chin upwards and resumes glaring at the wall opposite.

“No, really, I mean it,” John continues. “I liked that I had that effect on you. Made me a little giddy, if I’m honest. And again, you hooked me with the last line. That’s one I memorized. ‘I can be in a sea of people within a hundred meters of me, yet the only one I want to interact with is you.’ You should’ve seen the stupid grin on my face for the rest of the weekend, thinking about that sentence. So I guess you’re not entirely hopeless at flirting.”

“Hm. Thanks,” Sherlock huffs, arms still crossed, still not looking at John.

“Ah, Sherlock. Come here,” John says softly, setting aside the laptop and reaching out to hug Sherlock, who keeps his arms crossed. John lets go, pulls back to look Sherlock in the eye. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Seriously though, it was cute. And you’ve gotten much better. You just needed a little reassurance, build your confidence up, you know,” John adds, teasing Sherlock with another exaggerated wink.

Sherlock swiftly reaches out his left hand to the back of John’s head, putting his mouth just under the opposite side of John’s jawline, not touching his skin, but close enough that John can feel Sherlock’s warm breath. The hairs on John’s neck prickle excitedly, and he suppresses a shiver.

“How’s this for confidence?” Sherlock breathes, his voice a low rumble John can feel down to his toes. He gently licks along the underside of John’s jaw, slowly, holding John’s head still with his left hand, then begins sucking, hard, on John’s neck, pushing against John’s skin with his tongue, then alternates between sucking and biting him, nearly breaking the skin. John lets out a slow, shuddering breath that almost becomes a moan. With a loud smacking sound, Sherlock pulls back and looks John in the eye, defiance mixed with desire on his face.

John’s voice is shaky. “Fuck. Okay. Yes, you’ve definitely improved.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to heimishtheidealhusband for the tips and encouragement with this chapter! And to all of my Dear John Hellions for their support and love. <3


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is in the kitchen, bent over his microscope, analyzing some new bit of evidence for his latest case. John sits in the living room, scanning a newspaper but not really reading it. He spent the better part of the slow day at work reading through his correspondence with William/Sherlock, and a corner of his mind just keeps chewing on one particular conversation. It’s like having a popcorn kernel stuck in his teeth: he needs to get it out.

“Sherlock?” he asks, folding the paper and turning to face him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock responds, not looking up from his work.

“Well, I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but… well, work was slow today, so I was reading the chat where William – where you, I mean – were talking about your relationship history. And I just think, you know, since we’re together now, I’d like to know about it. You hinted at some things as William, and when we first met back at the flat, and I’ve just been thinking about all of that and kind of wondering, you know, what happened. But like I said, you don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to. Just, whenever you _do_ want to, I’m listening.”

Sherlock looks up from his work, his face expressionless, and turns toward John.

“So you saved the chat logs, too? Even after you told me to leave you the fuck alone?” Sherlock inquires, mild amusement and surprise evident in his voice.

John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that wasn’t _really_ the focus of what I was saying just now, but yes.”

“Hm. What is it you’d like to know, exactly?”

“Nothing. Everything. Whatever you want to tell me. But just know that I’m not going to judge you. Nothing you could say would make me think badly of you, alright?” John answers, hoping Sherlock can tell that he means it.

“Alright. I’ll keep that in mind,” Sherlock says as he turns back to his work.

===

“Greg. Greg Maheegan,” Sherlock calls out, two days later, as John arrives back home after work.

“Nope, it’s John Watson, but what an interesting guess,” John teases.

“That was his name. The boy I told you about, the one I thought I was dating in sixth form,” explains Sherlock. He is sitting in his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, his hands steepled under his nose, eyes pointed directly in front of him.

“Oh, right.” John’s pulse quickens, though he’s not sure why he should be anxious. He walks to the small table next to his own chair and places his keys on it gently, as though trying not to spook a nervous animal. He stands behind the chair, positioning himself in Sherlock’s line of sight, but Sherlock doesn’t make eye contact as he begins his clearly well-rehearsed explanation.

“As I believe I told you, he was the first person who ever really wanted to be around me longer than absolutely necessary. And the first person who wanted to be… sexual with me. Not that he was particularly affectionate. He had a tendency to become quite angry if I was ever late to one of our ‘meetings,’ and he became agitated with me if I spent any significant amount of time speaking to anyone else. He also… never reciprocated any of the sexual acts that he demanded I perform on him. Once I had agreed to do something, he wouldn’t let me stop, even if I became uncomfortable. And when he was finished, our rendez-vous was over, never mind whether or not I had… enjoyed myself. I was often left alone, rather humiliated, aching with the desire to be touched… I had the choice of tending to myself or waiting for the _need_ ” – he sneers this evidently distasteful word – “to pass before emerging from whatever secluded location he had chosen for our tryst. Still, the fact remained that he wanted to be near me, he willingly spent time in my presence as often as possible. Being extraordinarily inexperienced in that area, I believed it meant we were in love. I told my family about my attraction to other men in general and about my relationship with him in particular. And, you’ll remember, they weren’t pleased. I was moved to another school. He refused any future attempts to remain in contact. And that was the end of that.”

Sherlock finally looks up at John, whose teeth are bared in a frightening facsimile of a smile. He is shaking his head from side to side, slowly; one fist is clenched while he uses the other to steady himself by holding on to the back of his chair.

“John – ”

John sniffs and jerks his head quickly upward and to the left, his lips are pressed together, his jaw jutting out. He knows he is making Sherlock reconsider whether he should have shared these insights into his past, but he can’t bring himself to stop imagining getting his hands on this – this _Greg_ , preferably around his neck, in a room with no witnesses… Millions of explosions are ripping through his brain, forcing him to imagine Sherlock alone, ashamed, and so desperate for approval that he had actually viewed the twisted, abusive scenario he’d just described as _love_ … _No wonder he tried to shut all of that down… Jesus, if I ever find that man –_

“John,” Sherlock begins, “I can only imagine that you’re thinking of all of the ways you’d like to hurt him because he hurt me. But – ”

John huffs out a humourless laugh, jabbing his finger in the air at Sherlock. “You’re damn right I am. And if I ever find that motherfucker – ”

“It doesn’t matter, John. It’s over. While I’m touched by the sentiment, I don’t need you to right every wrong that’s ever been done to me,” Sherlock interrupts, his voice slightly harsh, his words clipped short with irritation.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock! I’ll – I can’t – ” he manages to choke out as his fury builds, starting in his chest and radiating outward until his blood thunders in his ears and he begins trembling.

He stomps unsteadily to the toilet, closes the door behind him, a bit more forcefully than he intends, and catches his reflection in the mirror. There’s a kind of animalistic rage there: his nostrils are flared, his cheeks are white. He realizes he is grinning, the crazed grin of murderous wrath… He stops, places his hand on the sink and leans, steadying himself, breathing deeply, trying to bring his expression back to neutral. _Dammit. You sorry wanker, Greg whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is. You don’t get to do that to Sherlock. Christ._

And then, with no warning, fresh waves of guilt come washing over him as he thinks of the way his own first sexual contact with Sherlock had begun. John had been furious, terrified, and absolutely certain that Sherlock was going to admit that everything he’d said as William had been a lie, some sort of elaborate prank… John had raged against him, intimidated him, refused to allow him to explain or apologize, and Sherlock had cowered, had all but crumbled in response to John’s anger. Had been willing to let John do whatever he liked… John shudders at the thought. If Sherlock hadn’t broken down, if John hadn’t stopped himself… _You’re no better than Greg-the-sorry-wanker,_ a part of his brain accuses.  _What must Sherlock have been thinking then? What was he remembering?_ Yes, there had been tenderness and professions of love later, but John is sure that Sherlock’s submissiveness in those first moments had been a direct result of his experience at school… _Well, add that to the list of things I’ll never get over, then. Here I am, claiming to care about Sherlock, claiming to love him, even, and I don’t treat him any better than his abuser. What a joke._ John sighs heavily, gives himself one last glance in the mirror, thoroughly disgusted by his own reflection, and goes back into the living room to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry for acting like you need a rescuer; I know you can take care of yourself. I’m sorry I had to walk away. It’s just – it was too much for me. You didn’t deserve that,” John explains, his eyes gentle now, his face lined with sorrow. “No one deserves that, but you least of all. And for that to have been your first experience… It makes me sick that someone could treat you that way.” He can’t bring himself to mention their reunion in 221B; he hopes Sherlock hasn’t made that connection, and if he hasn’t, John certainly doesn’t want to be the one to make it for him. He wills his mind to stop playing an endless loop of the image of Sherlock cowering against the door of the flat inside his head.

“Thank you, John. You’re right, I _can_ look out for myself. If I did need someone to rescue me, though, I’d choose you,” Sherlock points out, his voice warm again. “I’d always choose you,” he practically whispers.

John is at his side in an instant, pulling him up out of his chair and into his arms. Sherlock eagerly complies, wrapping himself around John, enveloping John in his warmth. John’s hands are firm and (he hopes) reassuring on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock clings to him, as though he never expected anyone to hold him this way. John’s heart is aching with the disappointment and frustration of his own helplessness. He can do nothing to take away the hurt and rejection Sherlock has suffered. _But I’ll be damned if I ever let him suffer it again_.

They stand, holding one another. _Why did we wait so long to do this? The time we wasted…_

Sherlock’s voice is muffled as he speaks, his mouth and nose pressed into John’s hair, as though he’s trying to breathe him in, absorb his strength and his love through his lungs. “John, I don’t want you to pity me. He was important to me at the time, but he’s nothing – _nothing_ – compared to you. These past few years, you’ve very nearly erased him completely from my memory. It took quite a bit of poking around in my mind palace to even bring back his name. I just wanted to tell you – I don’t want to keep any secrets. But I don’t want you to think about him. I don’t.”

John leans back to look at Sherlock, one corner of his mouth twitching in a reluctant smile. “I’ll try not to. I promise. Anyway, he was clearly an idiot. I can only imagine how charmingly awkward you must have been at sixteen,” John adds, a genuine grin lighting up his face to imagine his precious Sherlock as a young man.

“Let’s hope you never have more than your imagination in that area,” Sherlock quips, pulling away gently and smoothing his shirt with his hands. “I fear you’d refuse my future attempts to remain in contact as well if you ever saw photographs of me from that time period.”

“Bollocks. I bet you were adorable,” John insists, adding a wink, the small gesture having become somewhat of a secret code, an in-joke, eternally a reference to that first chat between them, an affectionate reminder of how far they’ve come since that first awkward attempt at flirting.

“Anyway,” Sherlock changes the subject, waving his hand to dismiss John’s compliment. “That’s the only ‘relationship’ of any significant length that I ever had, apart from you. And I’ve done my best to delete it from my memory. So you can see why I never realized you might be interested, despite all of the signs and signals you gave off from the first time we met. I really have no frame of reference, no experience with what a relationship should be.”

“Well, it was bad luck for a first experience,” John observes. He settles back into his chair, and Sherlock follows his lead. “I’d imagine lots of people other than me have been interested in you, but if you haven’t noticed, you tend to intimidate the general population. Good thing I’m not easily intimidated.”

“Very good thing,” Sherlock agrees.

“You mentioned other ‘encounters’?”

“Ah. Well, if such a thing is possible, it’s even more embarrassing than my first relationship. But, in the spirit of avoiding secrets… You’ve probably noticed that I thrive when I’ve got someone around to listen to my theories, and to appreciate my brilliant deductions.”

“Yes, while I’ve never been the most luminous of people, I believe I did pick up on that nuance of your personality.”

Sherlock continues, either unaware of or ignoring John’s little jab, “As you know, I have no friends apart from you, and I have as little contact with my family as possible, so neither friends nor family served that purpose. I had a habit, for a while, of going to local bars occasionally and letting men pick me up. I can be quite charming when I’m motivated to try. I thought perhaps I could find a man whose sexual needs I could fulfill. Based on my only previous experience, I believed that having his needs fulfilled would mean he’d want to see me again. This, I hypothesized, would lead to conversations in which I could impress him with my intelligence and deductive reasoning skills, and, I hoped, he might become something like a friend, perhaps even a partner. Something always went wrong fairly early on, though. Most of the men I experimented with never contacted me again after one night in my flat together. Can’t imagine why. I mean, I did _warn_ them not to look in the fridge, but they never listened. Lestrade got tired of getting calls from my dates reporting dismembered limbs in my kitchen, so he advised me either to stop bringing men home or to go to their apartments instead. I wasn’t comfortable going to anyone else’s flat, so I gave up looking for a companion. I came to consider my work as my one true and faithful partner. And then you came along.”

John beams at him, barely able to contain a giggle. “I’m sorry, I know it must have been frustrating for you, but I’m so glad none of them stayed around. I really can’t imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t met you.” _There’s a good chance I wouldn’t have survived this long… Losing you was nearly the end of me._

“Well, it would be immeasurably less interesting, that much is certain,” Sherlock boasts, his head tiled to one side, eyebrows raised. John is pleased to see him looking self-assured again, confident.

“Granted. So that’s it, then? The idiot in school and some one-night-stands a few years ago?”

“That’s it. The whole of my sad little history. Then you showed up and I found I didn’t need anyone else,” Sherlock states simply.

Joy bubbles up in John’s heart. He knows Sherlock means this statement as a simple fact, not a compliment or an attempt at flattery, but the simple honesty behind the declaration makes it all the more significant. Joy crinkles his eyes, wrinkles his nose, pinks his cheeks. He pushes away the thoughts that threaten to spoil it, the _why did this take us so long,_ the _why did he leave me,_ the _you don’t deserve him_ , the _why did he lie_ … none of it matters. Sherlock doesn’t need anyone else, and neither does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my incredible Dear John Hellions for their input on this chapter, particularly MonikaKrasnorada, May_Shepard, handsinpants, heimishtheidealhusband, and queenmab3. Credit goes to them for John's yikes scary smile and rage-sniff, as well as Sherlock's school 'boyfriend' being called Greg, thus causing him to delete the name from his memory. Love you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, sex.

“John!” Sherlock calls from the bedroom. “Come in here!”

“What is it, Sherlock? I’m in the middle of eating breakfast,” John replies, padding to the bedroom doorway in his pyjama trousers and T-shirt.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, his own night clothes still on. He has his computer in his lap, staring at the screen.

“You can start by taking off your shirt.”

“Sh – what? Why?”

“I’d straddle your lap and kiss you until you started making little breathy noises,” Sherlock reads.

“Sherlock… what are you doing?”

“As soon as the shirt was over your head, I’d be snogging the hell out of you again.”

Sherlock looks at John, his eyes intense, focused on John’s face. John feels a tingling between his legs, but mentally wills it to stop, not sure where Sherlock is going with this.

“I’d be grinding down into your lap as I kiss you, our cocks pressed together through our trousers,” Sherlock recites, his voice like melted chocolate, not looking at the laptop anymore. He is, there is no other word for it, studying John. In spite of his efforts to remain calm, John feels his cock begin to stir.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he pants, his heart rate increasing.

“We’d be naked chest to naked chest while I squirmed in your lap.”

John is still standing in the doorway, inwardly cursing the fact that the computer in Sherlock’s lap is obscuring his view. He is desperate to know whether Sherlock is turned on or just toying with him. Either way, John is well on his way to being fully erect; there’s no turning back now.

“I’d work my kisses downward, from your mouth to your jaw to your neck to your collarbone to your chest. Licking behind your earlobe, to see if you like that,” Sherlock continues.

John shivers just thinking about it.

“And when I’d mapped out all your sensitive spots on your neck, I’d lick and suck your nipples, one at a time, using my fingers to play with the other. Back and forth.” Sherlock’s voice is low and rumbling.

John thinks about the times he has felt the vibrations of Sherlock’s moaning voice around his cock, the times he’s been enveloped in Sherlock’s warm, wet, gorgeous mouth… He is aching in his trousers now, but doesn’t move for fear that Sherlock will stop. His breathing is steady, but heavy, his head beginning to swim.

“Imagine how I’d feel moving over you. Caging you in, knees on either side of your hips, making you strain for it. Totally at my mercy. I’d use my tongue and work my way downward from your chest to your stomach. My chest would brush over your cock as I worked, just enough pressure to feel good but not enough to make your breath catch,” Sherlock continues.

Sherlock hasn’t glanced at the laptop since he first looked away. He’s been observing John the entire time, reciting John’s words from memory. The thought that Sherlock has read this conversation enough times to have it memorized is so much more of a turn-on than the words themselves. John closes his eyes and lets his head drop back, taking deep breaths, his cock straining in his pants. He hears Sherlock close the laptop and his eyes pop open, immediately drawn to the area between Sherlock’s legs as Sherlock sets the laptop off to the side of the bed. John can see through Sherlock’s pyjama trousers that Sherlock is just as aroused as he is, if not more so, and involuntarily lets out a moan.

John takes a step towards the bed.

“Stop,” Sherlock commands.

John stops.

“Reach down and rub your palm - flat - over your cock through your trousers. Imagine it’s my chest pushing down on you, teasing you until you squirmed under me, desperate for me to keep going.”

John does as he’s told, grateful to finally be getting some friction going. He rubs his flat palm over his cock, just as Sherlock has suggested, resisting the urge to wrap his hand around his prick immediately. He wants release, yes, but even more than that, he wants to see where Sherlock is taking him.

“Hook your thumbs in your pyjama waistband and ease them down your hips. Pants too.”

John does, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock, whose pupils are wide. John hisses a slight intake of breath as the cold air hits his legs and his sensitive prick. He decides to finally follow Sherlock’s first order and removes his shirt as well, so that he is standing fully nude in front of Sherlock, his erection on display. He notices that it has become the main focus of Sherlock’s attention and smirks, rubbing himself again, but still with a flat palm, resisting (with a Herculean effort) the desire to wrap his hand around himself and thrust into it…

“Hoping for me to touch you yet?” Sherlock purrs.

“Oh God yes,” John breathes, taking three quick steps toward the bed, where Sherlock now sits on the edge, facing John.

Sherlock runs his fingertips up and down John’s cock, watching how it moves. John’s breath is ragged now, uncontrolled tiny grunts escaping his throat at the end of each exhale.

Sherlock leans forward and licks the along the underside length of John’s shaft.

“Fuck,” John whispers, wrapping his hands in Sherlock’s dark, curly hair and making two fists.

John can feel the tight circle of Sherlock’s lips lowering smoothly around John’s cock, Sherlock taking as much of it as he can into his mouth. Sherlock’s hands are moving over every sensitive area he can reach: John’s balls, his thighs, his arse, his hole… He holds on to John’s hips as John tries (without much success) not to thrust hard into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock sucks noisily, teasing John, bringing him in and out of his mouth, squeezing the base of his shaft gently with his hand as he tongues the head of John’s erection. The pressure is building; John can tell that if this continues much longer he’s going to come in Sherlock’s extraordinarily talented mouth as he has so many times before… The very thought brings him even closer.  Sherlock’s right pointer finger slowly traces down John’s back, becoming slick with sweat, and then slips between the cheeks of John’s arse, making its way down to his hole and then pressing gently at the entrance as Sherlock continues to suck and lick his cock. John gasps and shudders, his knees threatening to give out as he tries to open himself up for Sherlock.

Sherlock pushes his finger slowly inside John, and stars burst in John’s sight. He groans, loudly, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. His hips buck backward, trying to take in more of Sherlock’s slender finger, and his cock slips out of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock chuckles; the low rumble so near John’s sensitive prick is deliciously stimulating.

“Do you remember what to do next?” Sherlock asks, his voice dripping with want.

John opens his eyes and looks down, sees Sherlock’s gorgeous face, his eyelids heavy with desire, his mouth half-open, almost panting, searching John’s face. Sherlock’s voice was confident, but his face is almost pleading: pleading with John to remember, to want this as much as he has wanted it, and although this isn’t the first time they’ve been sexually intimate since their reunion, it feels almost like a new beginning.

John remembers what comes next. And god, does he want it. He removes his hands from Sherlock’s hair, reaches into the bedside table drawer, fumbles for the bottle of lubricant, and passes it to Sherlock.

“Please,” John whispers.

Sherlock’s face immediately changes from pleading to greed mixed with triumph as he sets the bottle down on the bedside table and stands, just inches away from John, so that John can feel the heat coming off of him. He doesn’t break eye contact with John as he quickly removes his own T-shirt and his pyjama bottoms, leaving them both fully naked. John can finally see Sherlock’s hard, heavy cock, the tip glistening already.

Sherlock leans forward and growls into John’s ear, “On your back.”

John complies eagerly, stepping around Sherlock and moving to lie down on his back in the center of their bed. Sherlock is still standing, facing away from the bed, using the lubricant to slick his fingers and his cock. John’s eyes are drawn to the smooth skin of Sherlock’s back, the roundness of his arse, the slight curve of his hips, the slim muscles of his thighs… He can’t hold himself back anymore, he takes his own cock in his hands and starts to gently pull and squeeze, breathing heavily, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock finishes lubricating himself and climbs across the bed to John. He gently moves John’s hand aside, instead wrapping his own right hand around John’s erection and continuing what John had started. John’s head drops back on the pillow and he moans, spreading his legs apart to allow Sherlock to kneel between them. Sherlock slowly inserts one finger into John’s arse, making him squirm. John groans and pushes his pelvis down towards the bed, causing Sherlock’s finger to go deeper. Sherlock pulls out slowly, then inserts another finger, then another, until John’s breathing is ragged and he’s thrusting down on to Sherlock’s fingers, then up into Sherlock’s fist, again and again, both directions equally blissful.

Sherlock slowly withdraws his fingers. His right hand still wrapped around John, pumping gently up and down, he uses his left hand to hold John’s hips still as he presses his cock against John’s entrance.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John breathes. Where Sherlock’s fingers had filled him just moments before, he now feels empty. He is desperate for that fullness again. He squirms down onto Sherlock as best he can, but Sherlock is holding him flat onto the bed so that he can barely move.

“Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed now, still pressing, gently, at John’s hole, still masturbating him slowly, gently.

“God, yes,” Sherlock pants. “Beg me for it.”

“I can’t – I want you – God, please…”

Sherlock finally pushes forward, achingly slowly, filling John up. John is babbling, all coherent thought gone as wave after wave of pleasure washes over him. Sherlock leans forward onto the bed, holding himself up with his left hand while his right continues to see to John’s erection. John is squirming, angling his pelvis so that Sherlock hits his prostate as his thrusts start coming faster and harder into him.

Sherlock leans forward to lick John’s nipples, and John cries out, then quickly bites his lip to contain his outburst. He reaches out to touch whatever parts of Sherlock he can reach, runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest, shoulders, back, arms, then finally grabs Sherlock’s arse and squeezes, pulling Sherlock into him harder, deeper.

Sherlock lets go of John’s cock, supporting himself on his elbows so that he can kiss John, and now they are locked together, every part of them pressed together, their tongues mingling together, moans and breaths and bodies together as they were always meant to be. John pushes himself up against Sherlock’s belly, the heat and the friction between their bodies and the pressure to his prostate building as the kiss continues, and suddenly he is coming, crying out with the force and the pleasure of it, pulling Sherlock even farther into him, shuddering and thrusting and panting.

“Fuck, Sherlock. You feel amazing,” John moans, and now Sherlock is coming, pulsing, spilling himself into John, groaning his release low in his throat, eyes closed, face buried in John’s neck.

“Mmmm,” John breathes. “That was nice.”

Sherlock pulls out of John slowly, then collapses beside him on the bed, his left arm and leg draped across John. John absently caresses Sherlock’s arm with his right hand as their breathing slowly returns to normal.

“That was so much better than imagining you,” Sherlock mumbles.

John chuckles, turns and kisses the top of Sherlock’s curly head.

“You’re right. So much better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my fellow Dear John Hellions (MonikaKrasnorada, queenmab3, May_Shepard, handsinpants, and heimishtheidealhusband) for offering ideas and opinions on several elements of this chapter, and for just generally being interested in reading what I wrote. You're all amazing!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is curious about William's affection for London.

“You know,” John begins, out of the blue one afternoon, as though they were in the middle of a conversation Sherlock didn’t remember starting, “I feel like, when you were being _William_ , you talked a lot about how much you loved and missed London, but I’d never really gotten the impression before that you cared overmuch for the city…”

“John,” Sherlock sighs, “I wasn’t _being_ William; I _am_ William. It’s just not the name I typically use.”

“Right, okay, but you know what I mean. Why the sudden affection for London when you were away? I didn’t picture you as one who would get homesick.”

“Surely you could’ve deduced this one…” Sherlock looks away, trying to keep the blush from creeping into his cheeks. He takes a deep breath, then looks John in the eye, his face serious, eyes intense. “When I said ‘London,’ I meant _you_.”

John waggles his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Well, maybe I did _deduce_ it, but it’s nice to hear you say it.”

Sherlock scowls, then turns away in an effort to conceal the silly smile threatening to take over his attempt at looking displeased.

John clears his throat and reads from the computer open in his lap, “ _I very much miss both my native London and all the people who live in it._ So, you missed _everyone_ , eh?”

“I missed _you_ ,” Sherlock replies.

“ _I always loved London_ ,” John continues.

“I’ve always loved _you_. ‘That part never has and never will change,’” Sherlock quotes himself. “ _Remember_?”

John’s heart warms to the reminder of William Sherlock Scott Holmes’s declaration. When he’d first read it, it had changed everything. It had made his head swim, it had made him doubt and question, but it had also made him _hope_ , for the first time in a long time. _Hope_ that what he wanted, what he had wanted for so long, might actually be possible. He had been terrified, of course, that it was all just a ruse, but he had finally had some hope to cling to, and he is beyond thankful every day that he had been right to hope, and wrong to fear. He smiles and looks back at the glowing screen, continues reading the bits of Sherlock’s correspondence he’s copied and pasted into their own separate file, all the nice things he’d said about London, when he’d really meant John.

“ _I don’t have a residence in_ **London** _at the moment, but I hope to return as soon as my necessary travel is concluded_ … _There has been an appalling lack of truth in my life as of late, and it only serves to highlight how desperately I want to get home to_ **London** _._ … _I keep traveling and traveling and everywhere I go is_ not **London**. … _Hopefully not long now until I’m well enough to come to_ **London**.” John pauses and looks up at Sherlock with a playful gleam in his eye. “Such a rush to get back to this crowded, smoggy, expensive, ridiculous city.”

 “John, I don’t care a bit for this ridiculous city. _You’re_ my home. If you lived in the middle of Antarctica, that’s the place I would miss and long for. It’s _you_ , you’re what I need. I hated that I couldn’t tell you. I wanted nothing more, every day, than to tell you I was alive, that I was well, that I missed you, that I was doing literally everything in my power to return to you as soon as possible. When I couldn’t hold it in anymore, when I just had to say something, I said how much I missed and longed for London, hoping that somehow the message would come through, that you would know on some level that I meant I missed _you_.”

“Well, I know it now. And I missed you, too. I missed you like hell.”

They look at each other for a moment, then John stands and heads for the bedroom, calling out behind him, “Wait here. I’ve got something for you.”

Sherlock’s brow crinkles, his eyes following John curiously.

John returns in a few short moments with a small plastic bag, something that looks like it came from a tourist shop. Sherlock can’t conceal his puzzlement. John hands him the bag, positively beaming at him, clearly pleased with his own cleverness.

Sherlock looks doubtful as he takes the offered sack.  He opens it, pulls out its contents, and breaks into a laugh.

“Go on then, hold it up, let me see,” John encourages him.

Sherlock holds up the T-shirt in front of his chest, rolling his eyes, but unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. “Really, John? ‘I _heart_ London?’ You can’t seriously think I’ll wear this in public.”

“Nope. ‘Course I don’t. But it’s enough to me to know that you own it. And that you _mean_ it,” John explains, offering one of his trademark winks.

Sherlock never does wear it in public. But he wears it so often around the flat (under his robe, with the matching pyjama trousers John buys him later that year), that the print begins to fade. Thankfully, the sentiment never does.


End file.
